Gordian Knot
by BellonaBellatrix
Summary: Harry has a bit of a predictament on his hands when Bellatrix Lestrange, murderer of his godfather, is finally caught. HPBL
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I do not own. I promise.

Author notes: Just a plot bunny I had to write before studying for finals. I just had to!

Gordian Knot

Prologue

She was born with a mark on her back.

Few knew of it, and frankly few were worthy of this knowledge. She was born a flower with the Thorn on her back. Rebirth…the promise of eternity is what her father had said.

She believed it saved her life and her place in his heart…a heart sore with the numerous miscarriages of his wife and her failure to produce a male heir. It was said, or whispered, that the day she was born was the day she had almost died.

Lycaon Black was not very forgiving of failure.

The grey-haired man with silver eyes had entered the room where his wife was holding Bellatrix (at that point, yet to be named) and tore the child from the mother's grasp. He carried her to the highest point of the manor, leaving his wife's cries fading into the stone walls that served to smother the sound.

He held her out towards the heavens from his place in the window, about to let her plummet to the earth…until he spotted the mark. The curious arrangement of pigmentation that was noticeable, even on such a small back, a back smaller than his hands.

It pushed him back away from the ledge, away from himself almost. It stabbed at his eyes and he knew.

This child was to be great. This child was his Heir.

He named her for everything she was to be. A beauty, a majestic standard…not looks, the look of a wielder, of what was in all things magical but hidden. Underneath, she was like the ocean, full of such places travelers would not return from. A warrior of the old ways.

She was his. He trained her.

"Only if you beat me, will I acknowledge you as my Heir," he said without tone or emotion. Duels had no room for emotion. "Or worthy of my blood."

It took fifteen years for her to become a person. For most of it, she lived in her father's shadow until Hogwarts took her away.

He had shown her the labyrinth underneath the manor, full of tombs that changed design over time. They traveled in a elm boat on water that held the blood of their ancestors. He picked her finger and she added her own being to the river.

It was vast and endless, seeming to be far greater than the manor in length. Their blood was ageless.

"The original Black crest was a phoenix," he told her underneath the earth. "Because we never fade. We are loyal. We are steadfast. We are the purest of the pureblood. We harbor the true magic. And we defend it, regardless of ourselves."

Her first lover traced the dots in awe, unable to resist repeating the motion. She lay languid in the satin covers, watching the snow fall outside and the fires warm where the Slytherin dungeon had been cold and sightless. She envied Gryffindors and their possession of both her crest and her color. Red was eternal and the House of Black was eternal.

The second person who glimpsed the Thorn was Him, who transcended past even eternal. He was not of this earth, in her view. She treaded the path of heaven and earth with Him.

He had marked her again.

The third person had been the most unlikely but the most worthy. And that is where Bellatrix Black-Lestrange had been reborn.

&&&

It was thoroughly odd to see someone's lips move with healing paste on half of their face.

Stranger still were Luna Lovegood's words.

"Some say we make our memories when really our memories make us. Please, Harry. Please…wait until she remembers," she pleaded gently before she walked up the stairs and out of his sight to rest.

He was left in the darkness to watch the prisoner's movements like a hawk and his old hatred was roaring through his veins. He was so close to that feeling that he could not step away. Yet he had not revenged Sirius's death.

There was one thin line that separated moments: one moment being where Harry cast the Killing Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange. The other moment was the present moment where he could only imagine casting the Killing Curse of Bellatrix Lestrange.

As typical with one caught in time, he merely sat and stared, running mad in the darkness with his thoughts that were growing more and more realistic. He shivered.

The first real battle had left scars on them all. Some had been less than lucky.

He had made his first real kill today. A girl his own age, Millicent Bulstrode, and she had collapsed on him and he had been caught under the weight of death for too long to be useful. Though that was nothing compared to the weight bearing down on him now…

The weight of wanting to kill, of needing to…he knew he would still be empty where Sirius used to be but at least, his death wouldn't be worthless and meant to be forgotten over time. Harry had started to understand in part the Dark Lord's fear of death. It wasn't death itself. It was time and how it eroded everything that mattered. Ages ago, people lived and he didn't know them, their trials, or their losses. So it can only be that he, the famous Harry Potter, would be forgotten and become a mere word. As will those he had failed to save.

A great bitterness welled up in him and he cursed.

The woman behind the bars stirred. He froze, gripping his wand and for one desperate moment, not trusting himself. Harry walked to the cell and looked in, smirking.

She looked confused, gazing at first at the cold stone cell and then at the boy outside the cell. She stood tall and proud, for someone who had had their memory Obliviated by a rookie Auror.

"Where am I? Who are you?" she asked coldly, though not without a hint of uncertainty and just possibly, fear.

"You…are in the Hogwarts dungeons for being a filthy murderer. I am the one who will make you pay," he answered back, unforgiving and unmindful of Luna Lovegood's pleas. Those seemingly fortress-darkened eyes widen.

"What?" she whispers hoarsely, no doubt wondering who exactly she had killed. Harry would have been pleased to inform her except he suddenly couldn't get a word in.

"That can't be. You are mistaken," she sneers back. "I-…"

A bit of silent horror on her face, contorting it into the most marvelous of mirror image of the shadow on the mind, where one had lost something extremely dear to them…or someone who has just woken up from a nightmare to find the nightmare had been a much better than reality.

"I am no murderer," she finishes firmly and fiercely, leaning back against the wall and cross her arms tightly, to protect herself. Her eyes are full of intense clashing of threatening panic.

"Oh, but you are," he hissed back. "Or else you don't consider the death of a thousand Muggles murder."

He couldn't mention his godfather at this point.

"Muggles…"she muttered, seeming again confused. Then she regained her façade. He would have flung her Death Eater's mask in her face if he had had it in his hands.

"Forgive me if I don't believe ridiculous made-up words from children."

Harry blinked in shock and almost dropped his wand. Was it possible that her memory was that far gone?

He searched frantically for some semblance of a lie in her face. All he found was a dazed and feral look of someone cornered and possibly lost, caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

He cursed again.

"Bloody hell."

&&&

Short because of finals. Please review if you'd like!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own.

Chapter 1

The Question

Harry was caught in a vortex it seemed.

Her eyes held no gossamer webs of lies in them, and this truth made him incredibly angry. It welled up inside of him like a familiar friend.

One thing kept darting through his mind: How dare she forget? HOW DARE SHE!

Forget Sirius's face as he slipped silently through the grasping hands of the veil, half caught between his determination and his fall. His eyes…as long as Harry continued to dream, he would never forget his godfather's eyes, almost pleading. The fiery look had been the first thing that would greet his sleep and the last shadow remaining as the light blurred through his curtains.

He knew what Sirius had been pleading, begging for. Not to leave him. Alone. As he had been forced to leave James's son alone for years that seemed like several deaths. Death only to rise up again and relive that day again. Harry saw him now being dragged away by Aurors pulling back his arms with magical chains of cold goblin ore, with a frantic laughter ringing out 'This can't be happening to me. This can't be…'

Real.

"You can't be serious," Harry repeated, choking on the last word. "After all you've done…"

And she had seen what she had done quite clearly, under the embers of a verdant illumination from the sky above, shining down with an unnatural clarity. Under Voldemort's attempt for immortality where He even mark his signature in the stars above.

His hands shook. He felt detached from his body yet weighed down in his chest like he was sinking. He felt every limb and every breath.

Harry saw a greater alarm rising up on her face, probably from a place that she had never visited in years. A tangible fear from her that he could almost taste. She sensed his anger and didn't understand its source. Her eyes, bold even now, roamed his face looking for answers. They darted and focused on the bars and the stairs, straining to comprehend. The look was becoming increasingly vulnerable, even if she was trying to control herself, even if she was trying to wake up.

"I haven't done anything to deserve being placed in this filthy prison," she stated to herself with a hint of desperation. "I know I haven't. Please…explain yourself."

She had, in her own way, asked for his help.

He was affronted; it was if she had spat at his feet. Explain himself! She didn't deserve a….Luna's face swarm in front of his eyes. Her battered face that was still serene…Memories make us. He remembered Hermione's pleas at the Ministry of Magic, where his emotions became ids for him, people debating back and forth in his head, talking over each other while ignoring the ideals of reason. You can't hurt a…

Baby. Child. A new life…

Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped him, escaped from the bonds of life. Though it was a double-edged sword, to be sure. He made a helpless gesture, lowering the wand posed in his hand.

"I can't explain any of this…No one's explained this whole life to me. I had no one to explain the way my aunt and uncle looked at me until that set time when I turned an age, a mere number. I suppose eleven was my lucky number but my luck's run out. It ran out…when you…"

She stared at him, waiting.

"I didn't ask about your luck or your feelings. I asked about facts," she stated, with a familiar arrogance. "If you can't speak, go find someone who can."

He almost lost it then, skimming the surface so close he was blinded by the current of anger. Strangely enough, he turned to walk up stairs, go into the light and get a hold of his darkening mood.

Maybe, Harry thought. I will come back down and everything will be as it was supposed to be.

He heard her call out after him but he really didn't hear her, telling him to turn around and give her answers, like a man should. Harry supposed he did look like a man now.

As he walked up the stairs, he thought it best to get McGonagall, Dumbledore, or even Snape to come down in his stead. He could imagine McGonagall's steely glint peering over those sharp lens like the menacing hand of justice, with her hands folded unyieldingly in front of her.

Yes, he didn't have the energy for this impossibility right now.

He opened the door that groaned open, enjoying the cold feeling against his palm and thinking whatever forces above that the handle was firm and real. He was near laughing, just because he felt like it. Something was building up in his chest and he figured that the best way to relieve the rock-like numbness was to laugh.

His mouth snapped shut instead when he came face to face with a wild-eyed Neville. He looked mildly at the boy who clenched his wand like it was life itself and gained a solemn acceptance.

Of course. Why not? Who else would be standing there at this door? Unlikely, unlucky, and strangely fitting….If he had been an observer, he would have chuckled and shook his head. Deus ex machina was never his cup of tea. Yet it was someone's cup of tea and they preferred it mixed with salt.

Neville looked at him, mouth open and tousle-haired. Harry imagine he leapt out of the white covered bed like it was a spring-loaded cushion and tore, ripped the hanging curtains on the fragile hooks that hit the floor like a sudden rain storm. He might have slipped as well, got tangled in the covers, and rolled right out of the door, heaven help whoever had been in his path.

Yes, Harry thought. Timing is everything. He probably just woke out when someone whispered about their new guest.

Harry wondered vaguely if he would have had the same reaction had, say, if he heard on the edge of consciousness that Lord Voldemort was kept in the dungeons, imprisoned and at an impasse…of fate, he supposed. Harry would have liked to think he would have laughed, as he felt like doing now, and hand the coup de grace to whoever was nearest. He even would have loaned them his wand, be it Neville, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and yes, even Luna.

Well, maybe not Luna.

Snape… yes, he would have smiled and said, 'Could you do me a favor and take care of this? Just between us?'

He would have been defiant of Fate till the very end. He had no love of hate, even if he saw clearly it had become a part of him. But he wasn't going to give in, despite everything. It meant more not to and he couldn't stand to lose what he held so dearly, that something that would disappear the minute he uttered the Words of Ends.

What was Neville going to do?

"She's down there," his friend asked (more like confirmed), breathlessly. His eyes shined suspiciously and his lip quivered. Yet he was determined, Harry could see.

"Yes, she is" Harry said lightly, gently. "But I don't think you'll like…well, I'll tell you la-."

Neville pushed past him before he could finish and flew down the steps, taking three at a time. He almost fell.

It was a nightmare.

He saw what was going to happen before, almost thought it had already happened, and leapt after the wild-eyed boy instantly. It was like a ridiculous game of tag, the one-sided type where Aunt Marge would sic that monster of a dog on him and he would scrap his knees against the bark of a particularly tall tree in his haste to get away without a loss of limbs and too much blood.

The price was high in this game. Yet was there a price anyway? Did it matter?

Harry didn't want any mistakes.

He had had his fill of them, and even more so he didn't want for Neville to make a mistake. He lived with the worst of mistakes and it took you over. It lived his life more than he had, it seemed. So he couldn't allow this, not until someone else came to judge.

Neville skidded to a stop in front of the bars, his wand clenched in his bright red hand with a white strip of knuckles. Bellatrix, to her credit, backed away with her hands held in front of her, perhaps trying to ward off the inexplicable ill will that was going her way.

Her confusion was painted on her face so well she could have personified the state of mind. Her dark eyes flashed in denial.

"STOP!" Harry roared and in slow motion (as he saw it) grabbed Neville's trembling wrist. "You don't understand! It isn't what you think!"

He knew full well that Neville would think he'd lost his mind nor understand his words. Yet it was all he could say at the moment.

"Don't do it, Neville! YOU CAN'T, YOU'LL REGRET IT, LIVE WITH IT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!" he was screaming, half for his own fate rather than Neville's and later on, he would feel guilty. And Neville fought back, with unusual strength that springs from a well of past pain and hospital visits in scratchy clothes, always black for a constant funeral and pockets full of wrappers.

Harry had the sudden idea that a few fell out of Neville's pockets right now as they struggled. He found none later on but he could have sworn some littered the ground around them.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING! GET OFF ME! MY PARENTS!" Neville's usually quiet voice boomed out through tears. "IT'S MY RIGHT! YOU-!"

Harry wasn't sure how Neville was going to describe him and if the real reason the boy was so furious was because he was scared Harry would take his revenge. At that moment, he made a mistake. He would have laughed if he could have. But he couldn't.

Because a hand had darted through the bars and grabbed him around his neck, nails digging into his skin and fingers like a vise. He couldn't breathe, and it was so unexpected he wasn't too sure that he just wasn't imagining it and the lack of air was due to the highly stressful situation of being trapped under death for a day then trying to climb above it for the night.

But it seemed a hand was around his neck and he couldn't breathe.

Turned my back on my enemy, Harry thought. Well, can't get any more pathetic. Voldemort will have a good laugh about this. He'll know. He's here right now, somewhere.

He imagined the Dark Lord would be happier than he had been in ages, imagined the feeling would burst out like a thousand suns. Or would it be a thousand eclipses because Harry didn't die by his hands…literally.

Really, Harry found he didn't care.

He didn't struggle, just waited for either a change or the inevitable. Neville struggled onward in his attempt to halt Lestrange's heart but Harry kept his hand clinched tightly around Neville's wrist. It was a strange sort of dance and he felt stubborn. He wasn't giving in, even if the black dungeon turned even blacker. He wouldn't let Neville become a murderer. He couldn't.

His mind became a creature of tides, in and out his consciousness moved upon the sand.

Pins started to dance in front of his eyes and he closed them.

Then a cry burst out and the vise lifted.

"Enough!" said a voice so electric that it could only belong to one person. Dumbledore stood at the foot of the steps, like the Deus ex Machina himself had decided to make an appearance.

Neville backed away, his face tear-streaked. Harry heard Bellatrix take refuge by the wall. Harry just looked at Dumbledore, waiting and rubbing his neck in a casual manner. His hand felt some marks that would become purple flowers and future scars.

Oh well, Harry thought. Timing is everything. I'll just collect a few more scars. These I can hide with my collar.

Dumbledore gazed at Neville thoughtfully with a hint of both disappointment and grave understanding.

"Now is not the time, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore said firmly. "Now is not the time. She is a prisoner of war and will be tried. Till then, she is under my protection."

Neville blanched a horrible tomb-like white. It was if Dumbledore had extinguished all the fire in him. Harry felt ill and the dungeon was closing in on him. He leaned on the bars and not caring if Bellatrix tried that trick again. If she was feeling lucky…

"I know how you feel, Neville," Harry started slowly. "But-."

Consider yourself lucky.

"No," Neville cut him off. "No, Harry."

'No' could have meant a thousand different things. 'No' as in 'No, not right now. Don't speak to me right now'. Harry would have preferred that version.

But more likely it was 'No, you don't know how I feel. I have to see my parents alive yet not alive, wandering around like shells of themselves. Your parents are gone, not still here suffering.' Or even better 'No, Boy-Who-Lived. You're not taking this feeling from me. You think everything has to be about you, don't you.'

"Okay," Harry whispered, nodding, accepting the negative with grace. Wasn't it about him? To be fair, Bellatrix wasn't after Neville, though Harry would never say it out loud. She was (had been) after him, with her master. She had killed his godfather before his very eyes and Neville been too young to know his parents.

He pictured her smile underneath that mask.

Harry was getting slowly sicker. He banished the thoughts as quickly as he could but they still lingered. His hands shook and he gripped his neck tighter to hide this from everyone present. He burned with shame.

"It would be best if you go upstairs, my boy. Get some rest. You have done well for today," Dumbledore said calmly.

Neville had fought well, Harry agreed privately. Yes, they were all tired. That was it.

Neville ascended the stairs without a second look back, and Harry knew he would have to explain his actions sooner rather than later.

"Sir," Harry nodded respectfully. "I'm sorry about…"

This whole mess. Sorry about being here. Sorry about causing you so many problems.

"That," he finished. "I guess I wasn't thinking straight."

For he regretted grappling with Neville like a Titan and screaming like a nutter. And for making another mistake. He had quite the collection of them. He regretted Dumbledore having to intervene once more.

"It's understandable, Harry, after today. You've undergone far too much," Albus Dumbledore said with some restrained sadness. Harry didn't want to hear it. Hearing it wouldn't make it go away, like a bad dream. "Yet you've done more than can be expected."

Right, Harry thought. Being worthless in battle counts as unexpected.

He was very tired.

And Dumbledore appeared to be father time, aging faster than ever imagined. He had circles under his eyes that were practically engraved into his face.

Harry shrugged off the comment.

"I think…I think that we have a problem," Harry began. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. Harry groaned inwardly at the enormous understatement. "Lestrange…she claims that she's lost her memory."

He was very tempted to say 'lost her mind' and it was on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back.

Bellatrix remained silent, looking at the two of them like they were the ones out of their minds. Harry found it to be surprisingly annoying.

"I see," Dumbledore muttered, coming closer to the prison. "It would be most unwise…to assume the validity of her words."

Bellatrix held her head up boldly and glared at Dumbledore.

"And who might you be?" she asked in a haughty voice.

Dumbledore smiled at her while piercing her with his eyes. Harry could feel something radiating off the old wizard, like a pulse of power that made his hair stand on end. Bellatrix's lip quivered though she did not look away.

"I am the Headmaster of this school that you have attacked," Dumbledore responded directly but avoided her question. Harry agreed. He didn't owe her his name.

Bellatrix looked infuriated, as if they were all in on a nasty joke at her expense.

"I don't know who you people are," she began, her voice strained and on the edge of full fledged yelling. "Or why you are doing this, but I warn you…"

She seemed lost again, lost like a child. Dumbledore looked surprised, for the first time in his life. Harry gaped without knowing it.

"Oh my…" Dumbledore whispered, startled. "Could it be that a simple Memory charm…"

Harry did not doubt it. He could imagine that the look Bellatrix wore on her face, screaming like a banshee or like a Bacchae (more likely the case) and her eyes…he shook his head. It would be like the soul of war, if war had a soul, had taken on flesh and bone, turning into a wicked Lady Discord. No wonder the young Auror put so much power behind the sole spell he could remember…which had been the Memory Charm. Harry held back a laugh once more.

"Can her memory be restored?" Harry asked tiredly. "I mean, she doesn't even know why she's behind bars."

And the thought nagged him. There seemed to be a small injustice at work here, an enormous flaw. How could she be punished if she didn't remember? Moreover, how could they punish her?

Dumbledore gave him a curious look. He wondered at the cause but again shrugged.

"Yes, her memory can be returned. The task force from the Ministry has yet to leave. I'm sure that one among their number is capable of performing the suitable spell."

"Spell?" Bellatrix murmured from the shadows. "Now they're talking about spells. Think they're bloody wizards."

She went on with more descriptive phrases but Harry in turn phased her out as he departed slowly from the scene.

&&&

He didn't quite make it to the Gryffindor Common Room. As he practically crawled past the Great Hall, the empty chairs seemed to be calling his name.

So he wandered in and took a seat, in the dark light made by the candles. He laid his head down on the table and let his arms hang down. It wasn't very comfortable but he was strangely content. The silence in the Hall was deafening yet like a lullaby from his past, where maybe his mother sang to him.

He was almost asleep when he felt something come and sit down right beside him. He turned his head while not moving from his position.

Luna Lovegood was sitting in a very similar pose, with her thin arms dangling down and her mass of curling dirty brown hair covering her face. Harry saw the candle's light illuminating the blonde strands.

"Hello," she said lightly, from behind her hair.

"Hello," Harry returned. "How's your injuries?"

"Oh, the paste is crumbling off nicely. It's like its snowing and I'm the sky."

"That's nice," Harry said, glad her wounds were healing. "Did you run into Neville by any chance? Earlier?"

"I didn't run into him. He walked past me very quickly though. He seemed upset."

"Yeah, I guess he was," Harry muttered into the table, not caring about the glasses that were making indentions around his eyes.

"Why are you sitting like this? It isn't very comfortable," Luna questioned.

"Then why are you?" Harry asked back, puzzled.

"I'm trying to see if the uncomfortable feeling goes away. You've been sitting this way for a long time, you know. The moon's even moved on the ceiling."

"It doesn't go away," Harry answered. "No matter how long you sit like this, I don't think it gets any better."

"Then we should sit up," Luna advised. She put her hands lightly on his shoulders and pulled him into an upright position. "Yes, I think this will be a lot better, don't you?"

She studied him closely, her eyes roaming his face.

"Harry, what's the matter? Your eyes seem so sad," Luna whispered.

He could have said a lot of things in response. He wasn't really thinking about anything in particular though.

"They're going to restore her memory, you know," he said, in an effort to turn the conversation away from himself.

"Oh," Luna said sadly. "That is upsetting. I suppose I shouldn't have been so curious."

"What?" Harry turned to her, at a loss.

"Well, weren't you curious? I've always wondered what made people tick, since forever. It would be the most marvelous sight to see, if she turned out any differently with a nice, clean slate. It would mean that she was influenced. But if her path changed, would she change?" Luna mused.

Harry grew still. The question that had been haunting him for most of his life at Hogwarts…

Why?

Could there be an answer? Was this they're chance to find out? And it was about to be lost forever more.

He pictured the woman whom he had hated and cursed, now just a haughty child. His mind reeled. He still hated her, no doubt. But could he let this opportunity to slip through his fingers, for them all?

Harry sprang up.

"Thanks, Luna," he said brightly and darted off, leaving her with a dreamy smile.

"You're welcome, Harry."

He ran down the corridors, sliding into the walls or getting caught up in the carpets lining the halls. Several portraits voiced their protest to such precarious movement but Harry ignored their chidings.

He spotted Hermione and Ron moving slowly his way. Ron was supporting Hermione who still had trouble putting pressure on her ankle. He was muttering in her ear, smiling slightly, when Hermione saw Harry.

"Harry, what on earth!"

"Sorry, no time!" He yelled and blurred past the pair. To explain, to talk. Timing was everything, Harry knew. Time was flying but so was he.

He slammed open the dungeon door which he had to strain to open. He leapt down the stairs once more, the air whistling past his ears and in between his fingers.

He bet he made quite the picture landing on his feet, with his arms outstretched and glasses askew. He landed in pure pandemonium.

The task force was brandishing their wands and yelling back and forth. One man was lying on the ground, hood fallen open, in spread-eagle and blinking with a vaguely empty expression. A stone was lying by his head. Harry began to put two and two together.

A large rock flew by. It would have surely hit him if he had not turned to gape at the fallen Healer. It nicked his glasses and the sound echoed into his head.

She's throwing stones now, Harry thought wildly. Trying to stone us.

And that was the case. A snarling Bellatrix darted back and forth between the shadows, somehow dogging the sparks of the curses sent her way, and with a pound of rocks in her hands. She blended in quite well, in her dark clothes and dark hair, and she was very quick.

She is in a battle fury, Harry figured.

Dumbledore was watching the scene with mild interest, with his arms crossed. It seemed to be a small distraction from the bigger things at hand, since Harry was positive that Dumbledore could have stopped the chaos with a wave of his hand or a glint of his eye. Harry dogged the flying arsenal and made to the old man's side.

"Sir, I don't think we should give her a memory," Harry breathed out. "Can't we try and…"

See what happens.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. Like Harry had read his mind, for a change. Harry understood with a great certainty. Dumbledore would have liked to know an answer that question more than anyone else. Most likely it had haunted him relentlessly.

"A very good idea, Harry," the wizard said kindly. "I wish I had had it myself."

But, Harry thought. You did. You let me have this one, didn't you.

Harry felt his first true smile come forth, after being covered by a veil.

&&&

Thanks to reviewers!

Lady11Occult-Thanks for your continuing support on my stories. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Yes, Bellatrix is a fabulous character.

Uten-Thanks! Yeah, her past will come to haunt her. I hope I can pull it off effectively.

japanese-jew-Thank you! You know, I see what you mean about the dot image. Sirius is a star in the sky as well as the Thorn. Honestly, it didn't occur to me as I was writing it. Nope, no incest for this fic.

And thanks to: Veldrin, Dragon Sword Master, 3545345345345, warpedbadboy, ivan the terrible, e, Cail Jol. Your kind words encouraged me to continue. Also for some reason, I can't see the eleventh review, if there is one. So thanks to you too.

Please, tell me what you think.


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